Close to Home
by Lady Chalcedony
Summary: The one where Mirajane Strauss ropes her neighbour into babysitting her younger siblings.-MiraMard
**Summary:** The one where Mirajane Strauss ropes her neighbour into babysitting her younger siblings.- Mirajane, Mard Geer.

 **Author's Notes** : I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT I'M DOING WITH THIS STORY BUT I'VE LITERALLY BLITZED THROUGH ALL THE MIRAMARD FANFICTION ON THIS SITE THRICE OVER AND I'M CURRENTLY EXPERIENCING WITHDRAWAL SYMPTOMS.

Ahem. For all those rare-pair readers, have this short story-drabble-scene-cutout.

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When Mirajane finally dashes into her apartment complex, car keys thrown hazardously into her purse and loaded down with the plastic jostling of five grocery bags, it's with the knowledge that she is horribly, terribly late. The elevator doesn't come down fast enough. Mirajane spies the glowing letters blink downwards—fifteenth floor, thirteenth floor, slowly, slowly descending until it hits the basement levels of the parking space. She dashes in as soon as the metal doors chime open, balancing the bags at her hip and pressing the appropriate number floor.

Lisanna is going to be worried, Mirajane knows. Elfman is going to be frantic, out of his mind and tearing things apart. She's an hour and a half overdue from the appointed deadline of _be-home-by-6:00_. There had been a sale. Another sale, right next to the grocery store Mirajane frequented on her route back from work, and between loading her shopping cart with egg cartons and being caught by the end-of-the-work-day traffic rush, Mirajane had forgotten the time and forgotten her very dead phone, and-. Well. She had just forgotten, period.

The elevator dings at her usual stop. Mirajane skids out, bustles to the door near the end of the hallway and pats the pockets of her jeans for the house keys, letting the bags drop unceremoniously to the floor in a heap of crinkling plastic and fresh vegetables.

Inside, the lights are on, golden yellow and bathing the dark corners of the space with a feathery glow. Mirajane can hear the crackling of the television static before she sees the faces of her younger siblings, poised on some children's adventure show.

"I'm home!" she announces. The door creaks open, heavy and solid as it bumps against the wall.

There's a high squeal. Tiny footsteps pattering against the hardwood of the apartment floor. Then Lisanna is there, a blur of red shirt and silver hair as she barrels into Mirajane's middle, wrapping tiny, chubby arms around her waist.

"You're late Mira." She says solemnly, looking up with wide, pale eyes. A smudge of red sauce decorates her cheek. It's pasta, Mirajane figures, or some other base food topping, because Mard's culinary skills are limited to that and microwavable pizza.

From inside, a chair screeches backwards, and then there's another weight, Elfman throwing himself against her in a tangle of eleven year old limbs.

"There there, now," she soothes, glancing down to Elfman's sulky, puppy-dog expression twisted into her blouse. "I'm back. Don't worry. There was a sale and my phone died midway, that's all."

Reluctantly, Elfman draws away, and Mirajane gestures at the pile of groceries spilled across the floor. "Help me put these away. I'll make something really good today, as a treat okay?"

Lisanna tugs at the fabric of Mira's jeans as Elfman drags the groceries into the kitchen, mouth screwed into a pout. Imperiously, she declares, "Next time, Sis needs to call us! Mr. Mard's food never tastes as good as yours!"

"He's been very nice to help us," Mirajane reprimands, patting her little sister's head.

The subject of the conversation is sitting at Mirajane's dining table; one legged crossed over the other, back straight and dignified with his laptop and essays piled neatly into his bag. There is indeed pasta on the table, spaghetti, actually, piled high onto child-friendly plastic plates, and a half-empty pitcher of orange juice situated at the middle.

Mard Geer raises a perfect eyebrow in her direction, his coat draped over the back of his chair and tie loosened around his neck. He looks remarkably well put together. Clean dress shirt, tidy hair pulled up in a high ponytail, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

This is a significant improvement to the last time Mirajane had him babysit long-term, when Lisanna had decided to gather every single hair ornament in the house and resulted with Mard gaining a demolition zone of tiny too-tight braids, twined with neon ribbon and lopsided bows. Mirajane had stifled her giggles behind one hand and tried very hard not to laugh at him.

He greets her with a curt nod, rising to a stand as Mirajane slips out of her running shoes and props Lisanna up on one hip, twining long, tight fingers into her tiny, pudgy ones. "Ms. Mirajane," he starts, and Mira spies a smear of red sauce dripping near his elbow. Ah. So he isn't entirely unscathed after all. "Just what was the hold up, may I inquire?"

Mira laughs. He's always polite—sometimes brusquely callous about his remarks, if one knows where to look, but those are hidden razors tucked beneath his courteous manners. Waving a hand dismissively, Mira hoists two bags and makes a beeline for the kitchen. "Nothing much," she says, cheery, before her tone turns into sheepish apology. "I'm so sorry for making you wait though! There was traffic, and a super cheap chicken sale at the nearby supermarket, and well. My phone just died half way through." She nudges Lisanna's knee playfully with the inside of her leg. "You two haven't been giving Professor Mard too much trouble, have you?"

"He tried to change my T.V. channel to _News_ ," Lisanna informs her with tremendous gravity. "Said it'd be good for my reading level or somethin'. "

Mirajane raises an eyebrow at this. "And you didn't like that?"

"Nu uh."

Mard isn't making any action to discredit this, just standing with his arms crossed across his chest and a subtle, fond smile. "It would have diversified your vocabulary," he explains, just as seriously. Lisanna scrunches her nose at him, petulant.

Mirajane shoots him a grin, and the man rolls his shoulders into a near imperceptible shrug. Her beam ticks upwards.

"You're staying for desert right?"

A long, slow blink, but then Mard nods his head.

"I believe I will," he allows. Possibly, this is because the last time he had excused himself on the basis of "not wanting to intrude," Mirajane had smiled her tight-lipped smile, the one that doesn't show teeth but sends alarm bells ringing anyway for those with even a smidgen of survival instincts. And then she had barred the doors and forced him back into his seat, only permitting him to leave after two bowls of soup and an entire strawberry apple pie as a farewell gift.

Mira smiles and gently shakes Lisanna off her leg, marching forward into the kitchen for the necessary ingredients and appliances.

She's sure that the preparations for those blueberry napoleons are around somewhere.


End file.
